


Let Me Kill It With You

by sovery



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sovery/pseuds/sovery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy's not happy to be here. The FBI isn't too thrilled either. But Hannibal doesn't mind. BTVS/Hannibal (TV) Crossover. Drabble-fic, 1300 words a chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eyes Like Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Hannibal  
> Rating: F15 for mentions of violence and gore, and potential swearing.  
> Author’s Note: No one was going to write this story, so after waiting a bit I decided to.  
> Summary: Buffy is on her way to consult with the FBI with regards to the Chesapeake Ripper (1300 words).

_i. Eyes Like Glass_

Buffy likes to imagine that when Giles got the call from the FBI he sighed, polished his glasses, and whipped out a rolodex (because even if she had joined the 21st century and kept all of her contacts electronically, he certainly hadn’t) and tried every single person he could before he called her up. She is, however, aware he had likely jumped at the chance to ask something of her, to force an opportunity to engage. 

She’s sad and bitter and she wishes she were a big enough person to forgive him, but at this point in her life, _she’s_ _so fucking done_ with forgiveness. It takes too much energy and requires you to give some of yourself to the person you forgive. There isn’t very much of her left these days, and what there is, she hoards selfishly. So she hasn’t forgiven Giles, or Willow, Xander, or even Dawn, her little sister who couldn’t even muster up a half-hearted apology for betraying her. She is an army of one again these days, despite the thousand or so baby slayers that have popped up. Giles is running The Council these days, now PC-ly called the International Slayers and Watchers Council, or ISWC for short. Turns out, most of the world’s governments had arrangements with the old Council, or as Buffy not-very-PC-ly calls them in her mind, ‘the idiots and assholes who had the decency to die’. 

When there was suspected supernatural activity that one of the government agencies was investigating, the ISWC would send in one of their people to investigate. Usually one of the newly minted watchers, or one of the older slayers. When it was some attention seeking vampire, or ambitious demon who had managed to avoid the local slayers and independent monster hunters, a team would come in to take care of the problem, and the agents would be left more or less clueless as to why their rash of serial killers just came to a close. They had a few people higher up in each agency who were either reporting directly to the Council, or who were more or less aware of what went bump in the night, and they knew to ask for help when it came to suspected demonic activity. 

Sometimes though, it turned out that there was no monster, or at least, not one with scales and horns and fangs. That was always difficult. It was so much easier to fight evil when it didn’t wear a human face. So much easier when you didn’t have to think about how someone who you shared a massive amount of DNA with was capable of committing such atrocities. It was frightening and far more disheartening than going up against a creature out of a fairytale. 

The woman in the seat next to Buffy’s let out a little snore. She glanced passively at the middle-aged woman. Overweight and tackily dressed, she smelled of an overpowering perfume and dirt. Her mouth was open and Buffy could see the faint outline of hair on her upper lip. There was something so…so pathetic about her. Asleep, she could have been anyone. She lacked light in her eyes, a laugh on her lips, anything besides the soft breathing and flutter of her heart to indicate she was alive. Turning back to the file in front of her, she continued reading. Having assured herself of her companion’s restfulness, she felt safe in looking at the glossy crime scene photos below. 

Even though she rarely spoke to any of the others these days, preferring to communicate through those she occasionally worked with, she still technically answered to Giles. He had pulled this stunt again a year before, sending her to a group of stuffy agents in Scotland tracking a child-killer. It had been a human. The agents hadn’t really needed her. One of them, a tall man with too-wide eyes, had taken a hearty dislike to her from the beginning. _Witch_ , he had called her, as they had parted. There was no madness in his eyes, only wariness. _Fey_. 

_Creepy_ , she had heard the younger members of the Council calling it. _Inhuman_ , was the word of choice of the older members, those few who had survived the bombing and been welcomed back. She knew she had changed, body seemingly untouched by the trials she transformations she had endured to save the world and save her family and save herself. Her face was still unlined and youthful, body fit and graceful, but her eyes were merciless and empty, save what little of herself she had hoarded like tarnished heirlooms and occasionally allowed to flash through and light her gaze. 

She looked at the bodies, at the humans discarded and displayed. There was a certain arrogance there, and a cool precision that she had seen before in the ancient and the cruel. But for the lack of sensuality, and the personal touch he had always dared to display to her, she might have thought the work Angelus’. But Angel was in L.A. far, far away, and while the others might think her oblivious to his latest suicidal move, she still had contacts in L.A. 

Okay, seriously? What the fuck was with the antlers? Maybe it was a Chaos Demon, she thought to herself, amused. Though it was missing slime…. The problem was, the intensity of the crimes, and the repetitive nature indicated possible demon. Especially considering the whole missing organs thing. Chowing down on humans was par for course when it came to demons, they usually just weren’t usually so stupid, or in this case, arrogant, as to make their actions obvious. 

On the other hand, this Chesapeake Ripper, and the FBI seemed sure that it was just one killer, seemed to use nice tools for cutting up his victims. Demons usually liked their claws or fangs or whatever. Or knives if they didn’t have those. The victims themselves didn’t seem to have much in common and their deaths were confusing. The info didn’t match any known rituals, and the crimes were different. It was not as though their killer was just collecting virgins’ hearts, or ears or something. Buffy sighed. She would have to wait until after she was able to talk to the agents on the case and check out a crime scene. If nothing else, she might be able to smell the demon. Seriously, some of them reeked, and these days, her senses were better than ever. 

She absently put the file away and put up her tray table as the plane prepared for landing. She closed her eyes but did not sleep. The next few days were going to be unpleasant, to be sure. Her life wasn’t very fun though, even when she wasn’t looking at murder victims and playing nice with FBI agents. What did she have to lose? She could be in and out, and one way or another, her job would be done. Buffy was patient as she got off the plane, mechanically smiling at the stewardess, neatly collecting her bag. She hailed a cab and it took her to the hotel someone else had chosen to her. It was as bland and lifeless as any she had seen, perfectly clean, perfectly soulless. She was meeting the FBI in the morning. 

Buffy set her alarm, undressed, and washed her face. Empty eyes stared back, out of a pretty, youthful face. She wondered what she was doing with her life. There was no mission, no light, no guiding principle, only numbness and soul-bruising monotony. There was death, and blood, and lies. She had friends who had betrayed her, lovers who were dead, and those who might as well have been. 

That night, she lay awake in bed, arms spread wide, with her eyes open and dreamed of freedom. 


	2. Ice in the Springtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Hannibal is keeping a careful eye on the new arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Hannibal.  
> Rating: F15 for mentions of violence and gore, and potential swearing.  
> Author’s Note: 1300 words, Hannibal’s POV.

ii. _Ice in the Springtime._

“Someone is coming in from some other organization,” Will tells him one gloomy afternoon. Hannibal is mildly surprised. The FBI, from what he has observed, is very territorial about their cases, their killers. It might be amusing to see another player added to his little drama though. 

“Really?” he responds, prodding, leading. Will nods, his dark, drowned eyes conveying confusion and frustration. 

“Jack mentioned it the other day,” he continues, “The orders came from the deputy director. They think,” he hesitates, “they think this group might have seen the killer before?” he sounds unsure. Hannibal contemplates that. It is possible, or course, that one of his early kills has come back to haunt him. Possible, but unlikely. 

“What do you think?” he asks Will instead. Will furrows his brow and says nothing. 

Hannibal makes sure to be at the FBI when the mysterious agent arrives. He has discovered she is from the ISWC, a shadowy group connected to no government in particular, with very little public information. He is admittedly curious. 

Summers, the agent, is due to arrive. He wonders what she will be like. Tough and abrasive, with a need to prove herself, like so many of the women who work in a male dominated field? Strange and unresponsive, a keeper of secrets? He contemplates how she may change the dynamics that are in play. 

When she arrives, all activity, the half-hearted conversations, cease to be. They all look at her. She is smaller than Hannibal imagined, and more beautiful as well. Long golden hair in a ponytail on the back of her head, a slim frame clothed in an expensive black suit, short fingernails, an elegant neck; these are the things Hannibal first sees about her. She has green eyes that betray no emotion, and pink lips that form an expressionless line. Her movements are graceful. Her steps are precise.

“Hello,” she says, in a low attractive tone. “I’m here to speak to Agent Crawford?” 

Her words hang in the air for a moment before they are snatched up by people greedy for the sound. Jack, a man who is devotedly married, if not always happily, steps forward with more swiftness than Hannibal suspects a less attractive encroaching agent would earn. 

“Agent Summers?”he queries. “I’m Jack Crawford, head of Behavioral Sciences.” Hannibal notes the slightest twitch of her mouth at the term ‘agent’. She either dislikes it or is unused to it, he judges, and looking at her unlined face, he supposes it could be both. Zeller eagerly steps forward to introduce himself, and Price is quick to follow. Alana looks at her carefully, assessing. She’s not that easily distracted by a pretty face and disarming gaze. Beverly Katz is somewhere else, and that leaves Will. Will looks at her with the eyes of the kicked dog, wary and watchful. Her gaze flashes to meet his and Hannibal thinks he sees a flicker of surprise in the hooded gaze before the woman turns her attention back to Jack. Her presence, Hannibal decides, though still potentially inconvenient, looks to prove entertaining. For now, he will tolerate it. 

She and Jack disappear into Jack’s office, and Hannibal is forced to divert his attention to the conversation at hand, and let Agent Summers slip away. He remembers her gaze though, old and cold and revealing only that she had things she wished to conceal. He was not overly irritated though. He would find out more. 

Over the next few days he gathers information about her methodically, doing what little research he can on his own, for Ms. Summers has very little information about her publically available, and taking it from Will, Alana, and Agent Crawford. She is 29. She is unmarried. She never laughs. She is apparently unfazed by gore. Her first name is Buffy. Hannibal wonders what her parents were thinking. The woman deserved a name like Diana, Dido, or perhaps something biblical. He could see her as a woman holding the head of her lover.

She forgets to eat, sometimes. And a confused Will reported back to Hannibal that, “she said something about irony and the situation…something about Angelus mortem?” Hannibal watches Will’s clever mind search for and dismiss connections. 

“Does she disturb you?” Hannibal asks, curious. Will shakes his head slowly. 

“I don’t understand her. At all. I don’t understand why she’s even here, what she even does, or who she even is. She’s not a crime scene analyst or a profiler or psychologist- and she won’t tell us exactly what she’s looking for,” Will’s brow is furrowed, his eyes downcast, using his glasses to avoid eye contact again. He is no more or less stable than before. But he has a new problem to occupy his mind. As does Hannibal. 

There are no fresh crime scenes for Ms. Summers, so she is unable to get closer to the answers she is seeking. Hannibal does not face the same impediments. He watches as a few days go by, as she remains cold to most of the team, while allowing Alana to get closer. The other woman is talented at getting people to open up, and her presence is warm and genuine. Alana has become close to Will, and Hannibal suspects the two may be closer than either would care to admit, so forming a tentative friendship with the other woman was likely inevitable.

Summers is frustrated, and her first real emotions betray her, allowing the other woman to form a bond. The blonde had looked amused, even resigned when the other woman had dragged her out for drinks. The next day the two women were on a first name basis. 

Will still watches her warily, but she seems unbothered by it. Hannibal made an excuse to bump into her, while assisting on some small detail, and asked her about it. 

“You don’t seem to get along very well with Will Graham, Ms. Summers. Why is that?” Subterfuge is not the way to go with this woman. 

She fixes him with unblinking green eyes and for a heartbeat he feels and alien tingle of fear. There is something about her, deadly, when she should be vulnerable. She is small and fragile-boned. Snapping her neck would be an easy thing. But some deeper instinct warms him that the delicate figure in front of him is a predator. As if to confirm his thoughts, she flashes him a parody of a smile. It is an awful, creeping thing. Her eyes are dark. 

“I wouldn’t say we don’t…get along well,” she says, voice soft. “I think he just…sees and doesn’t see.” Then the tension in the air breaks as she gives a casual little shrug of her shoulder, encased in a well-tailored blazer. “Besides,” she says, tone deliberately lighter, “I don’t think either of us really like strangers.” 

Hannibal smiles at the double meaning and gives her a courteous nod. She walks away on swaying heels, the shape of her like a carving knife. He must have her over to dinner, if she is to stay much longer. As she glides down the hallway, she turns to enter a door, giving him a considering glance as she closes it.

Hannibal considers her. He weighs his interest in her against the possible danger she poses. He sees in his mind’s eye her green eyes, dulled with death, dim in life, alight like a chemical flame, narrowed as she watches him carefully, open and amused as Alana banters with her, attentive and low-lidded as Jack speaks to her, and tired as she meets Will Graham’s tormented and probing gaze. He pictures her lifeline held by fate, a thin, pink tendon stretched out, with scissors poised to cut it. He thinks of what her heart would taste like. 

_No_ , he decides. At least, not yet. 


	3. Heart Flayed Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Their interactions are awkward, but real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Hannibal  
> Rating: F15 for mentions of violence and gore, and potential swearing.  
> Author’s Note: 1300 words, Will POV.

iii. _Heart Flayed Bare_

“You know,” he says one day, “If you would tell me what you’re looking for, it might be easier to help you find it.” He watches her carefully, gauging her reaction. 

Will has, thus far, not been able to get inside her head. He doesn’t really mind. While he would like to know what makes her tick, he gets the feeling her mind is not a happy or cheerful place. Her gaze is too haunted, though he cannot quite say by what. If he had to guess, he would say it had something to do with PTSD…but that was an incomplete diagnosis at best. Will has been the victim of lazy diagnoses too many times to indulge in them himself. 

At his words, her lips quirk up in a tiny smile. She, for some unfathomable reason, seems to like him the more abrupt he is with her. 

“That’s probably true,” she agrees in a low voice, “But this is one of those, I tell you- I have to kill you kind of deals.” She pauses, to let him take that in, he realizes. She is joking, but telling the truth. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did, anyway,” she continues, closing her eyes and smiling. She tilts her head back slightly, and Will has no trouble at all slipping behind her closed eyes, the all too familiar sensation of dried blood on her/his skin. She’s weary, has seen enough of death, enough of the ugly realities of life. She is floating in a vast ocean of blackness, treading water automatically. 

Will is so good at getting into other people’s heads, the murderous, monstrous people, that he hates feeling the similarities. Selfishly, here he does not. He wouldn’t wish his emotional turmoil, his life that contains few friends, many dogs, and a single unhappy purpose, on anyone. But knowing that someone else bears a similar emotional load reassures him a little.

Summers is tired, and bitter, and numb, and _sane_ , and he feels it in her voice and the connections that had been missing, the little deductions that Jack keeps him around for, start clicking in his mind like the pins of a lock neatly tumbling into place. 

She has been still as he’s passed long moments looking at her boldly. There is a kind of grim curiosity in her eyes, and a wariness, like a cornered animal, a predator, he thinks. Fearing some hurt but still a consummate survivor, still dangerous, still confident in her ability to make it through. 

“I think I might,” he tells her, measured. 

“What?” she asks, green eyes widening. 

“Believe you,” he tells her. “Whatever it is, I think that I would...” here he hesitates, “trust your judgment.” _I would trust you_. 

She looks at him with wary eyes and for once he meets her gaze straight on. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because she relaxes ever so slightly and gives him the tiniest smile. It is like a thin ray of light is allowed to escape from the shutters of her soul, and he realizes, perhaps for the first time, how beautiful she is. Objectively he’s seen the others’ reactions to her presence, but only now is he able to fully appreciate it. 

“Thank you,” she tells him, her voice quiet, looking up at him from under thick eyelashes . 

He opens his mouth automatically to ask, _for what?_ But then he understands, and closes it, He nods at her. 

He feels like he should move on. They’re just standing in the middle of this currently empty hallway, looking at each other, and he knows if anyone were to see them what they would assume. The awkwardness he always feels is hanging heavy and overripe in the air. But he doesn’t want to move. 

He’s tired, and she’s tired, the kind of numb, leaden, bone-weary I-wish-I-were-dead kind of exhausted. It’s such a precious relief to find someone who feels the same way as he does, even if he isn’t selfish enough to wish his demons on anyone, that he doesn’t want to walk away. 

In the end, the echoing of someone’s footsteps, a precise tap-tap forces the decision on them. They both turn automatically in the direction they were originally going, and she gives him another little quirk of her lips as they part ways, another hint at the person she might have been. To his eyes, long accustomed to the darkest dregs of humanity, she is momentarily blinding. 

Still, she smells like funeral flowers. 

When he has his next session with Hannibal, and the other man asks him about Summers again, he doesn’t share what happened in the hallway with him. Hannibal is a lot of things, but Will doesn’t think he’d understand, and it’s not as though his opinion of Summers particularly matters to his wellbeing or success in catching the Ripper. Come to think of it, Hannibal’s interest in her is a little unusual. At least, in a professional capacity. 

Everyone at the office is curious about her, but Hannibal has asked Will quite a few questions about her. Does he have a personal interest in her? Will can’t imagine a man so in control in a relationship, and though Hannibal can be warm with his friends (Will now tentatively counts himself among them), all of his passion seems to be devoted to art, music and food. For all that Buffy was numb, she didn’t seem cold to Will. Not since he’d seen the spark that hinted at what must have one been a smile to set the world aflame. 

He decides to dismiss the concern and instead concentrate on those probing, unsettling questions Hannibal is tossing at him with a slight smile on his face. 

The next time he sees her she startles him. He blinks and then she is there, wearing sensible shoes and jeans, nothing he has seen her in before and looking at him with what appears to be concern. 

“Will,” she says, waiting for him to acknowledge her. He nods and dips his head. She hesitates a moment, looking at him, before sighing. 

“I hate to ask,” she says, voice low and steady, “but I need to see the crime scenes. And you’re the best one to show me. I still can’t tell if this is my case or not, and it’s just… incredibly hard not knowing. Waiting.” 

Will nods slowly. He can understand that. It’s driving him mad; he understands this killer, but can’t catch him. The man was too clever by half, and knew it, and was mocking them, watching them, secure enough to almost help him, leave him gifts. Will tries to stay away from the idea that the gifts, those bodies, were for him, but he can’t help but feel they are. 

He’s involved with this case, with this killer, and he can’t get away from it. Jack won’t let him. He won’t let himself. Hannibal encourages him, patches up his mental wounds _(though it feels like putting a band-aid on a bullet hole_ ) and sends him out again, into the wilderness of madmen’s minds, ( _Will wonders is he is one of the madmen_ ) and there seems to be no end in sight. 

He can help the woman in front of him. He hopes. If this isn’t to do with her mysterious killers, then she can leave, and though he has begun to appreciate her company, the stillness of her gaze, the sense that someone else knows what it feels like to be continuously drowning, he would be happy to see her go. If she can be free of this, he will aid her in whatever way he can. 

“I’ll do it,” he says quietly, eyes meeting hers. 

He is careful not to think about who might help him. 


	4. Wolf Cloaked in Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Hannibal  
> Rating: F15 for mentions of violence, cannibalism, and swearing.  
> Author’s Note: Alana POV, 1300 words

_iv. wolf cloaked in blood_

Alana has always been a light sleeper. She’s not sure why. She has older brothers so it’s not as though she grew up in a restful home environment, and she usually doesn’t consider herself a particularly sensitive or unquiet person. Being peaceful comes easily. But then, you don’t become a psychologist of her caliber without being alert, without noticing little differences. 

So when her phone buzzes at – _Christ_ – 3:22 in the morning, she reads the text. 

It’s from Buffy. _Have visited crime scenes w Will. He walked me through murders. Not my kind of monster. Meeting Crawford at 9 to let him know, leaving tomorrow. Wanted to say thanks. It was nice to meet you. -B_

Alana blinks at the text. She’s fog-brained right now. She rereads it. The whole thing is somehow surprising, and yet not. Will had been standoffish to the blonde, but Buffy, as Alana had found out for herself, was kind and honest, and sort of miserable beneath her cold façade. She had seemed very lonely. She and Will had more in common than either likely realized upon their first meeting. 

And she knew Buffy didn’t want to be here. The other woman had explained that it was something political, that this wasn’t what she normally did. When asked about that was, she had only smiled and said it didn’t involve waiting for new victims. 

And wasn’t that a kick in the stomach. 

But Alana understands Buffy’s desire to get as far away from this case as she can, God knows they all feel it. Still, she will miss the other woman. She had a dry sense of humor and, as she had found out when a patron at the bar the women had gone to got a little too aggressive, a mean right hook. 

She stares at her phone for another moment, before shaking her head and going back to sleep. She can think more about this in the morning. 

In the end, it is Hannibal who has the idea of having Buffy over for dinner. Alana takes responsibility for wheedling the other woman into accepting, calling her out on her polite excuses. Buffy accepts resignedly, cautiously, which surprises Alana, but then, Buffy only ever warmed to her, Beverly, and Will. Still, she supposes it’s difficult to deny someone so politely determined. Hannibal has always had one of those personalities that was quietly forceful. Then again, Alana reminds herself, Buffy was hardly a pushover. 

Dinner is at 7 pm, a deferment to Buffy’s 12 am departure. Alana meets her at her rental car, a bland red little Corona, and wonders why she didn’t pick a better time for her flight. 

“Were they all booked?” she asks the other woman. Buffy shrugs. 

“I’m practically nocturnal at this point anyway,” she says, with a little eye roll. 

There’s a story there, and Alana decides not to touch it. 

Will is slightly more relaxed than he usually is inside, though Alana still worries about him. At least here, in the comfort of Hannibal’s opulent home, he can get away from the blood and death and sadism that he has to deal with on a daily basis. Then again, Alana understands Will more than most would suspect, and she has some idea of the incredible burden he carries around every day. 

Buffy and Will exchange cautious smiles and greetings, as Hannibal walks in, dressed in his customary suit. 

“Ah, Agent Summers, nice of you to join us tonight,” he says to her, smiling widely, the consummate host. She returns the greeting politely as they sit down to enjoy the wine provided as Hannibal puts the finishing touches on his latest masterpiece. Buffy smiles back at him, tired but honest. 

“Hi Will,” she says. Alana doesn’t think that she’s heard Buffy call Will by his first name before. 

Just then Hannibal recruits her to help him bring out dinner. She deftly balances two exquisitely presented plates and places them on the table. Will has offered Buffy wine in the meantime and when Hannibal offers her a toast she accepts it gracefully. 

“What are we eating tonight?” Will enquires with a smile, which Hannibal returns. 

“Boar,” he says, and Alana glances at the flesh on her plate, artfully arranged with potatoes and caramelized onions and carrots. She looks up and catches Buffy frowning at her plate. 

“It doesn’t smell like boar,” she says softly. Alana sees Hannibal glance up in surprise. 

“It’s seared,” he says smoothly with a smile. There remains a little line in Buffy’s forehead. 

“It almost smells like-” she breaks off suddenly, head snapping up, her gaze meeting Hannibal’s. There is an eon of silence where Alana cannot speak and does not understand why.

Buffy’s lips curl back in disgust, green eyes wide and hard as she brandishes her dinner knife. 

“I am far more familiar with the smell of cooked human flash than I would like to be,” she hisses, “and while there’s a bit of a difference between being scorched with fire and, and _flambéed_ , I _recognize_ this.”

Alana cannot believe the outlandish claim, yet her stomach is turning just at the thought that just maybe Hannibal is... _oh God_ , she feels ill, and has to restrain herself from vomiting, focuses instead on the bizarre scene before her. 

Hannibal’s left hand is raised in a conciliatory, soothing gesture, and his expression that of anyone confronted by a crazy knife-wielding person spouting wild accusations, but his eyes are dark. His right hand is curled around his steak knife. 

Buffy closes her eyes briefly, inhaling through her nose, as if to gather herself, and Hannibal hurls a statue from a side table at her. She bats it aside contemptuously, and Alana is stunned again because that thing had to have weighed a _ton_. She is not sure who to believe, not sure who to help. 

“She needs to be restrained,” Hannibal says, in his calm, authoritative voice, with real urgency. Buffy’s eyes burn, her entire being transformed into power, deadly purpose, and Alana wants to get nowhere near the other woman. 

“I would like to see you _try_ ,” Buffy snarls contemptuously. 

Neither Will nor Alana make a move. Alana is still stunned and unsure who – what to believe. Will is- she looks at him- _Christ_. He is too still, his eyes closed, sliding into the mind of a killer, except this is _wrong_ , Buffy has to be wrong or crazy or something because Hannibal is their friend and-

Will shoves away from the table in a jerky movement and vomits. Buffy turns to look at him and then Hannibal chucks another object at her head, this time a plate. She doesn’t take her eyes, steel softened by mercy off of Will but avoids the plate with a deft step. Her eyes snap back to Hannibal and she gives the most terrifying parody of a smile Alana has ever seen, so incongruous on that small female face. Hannibal halts his movement. 

Buffy tightens, and then she moves. Almost too fast for Alana to see, she leaps in a way than should be impossible, catching Hannibal in the chest with her booted feet and sends him crashing to the ground. As he moves to get up. eyes bright with something Alana can’t believe she never saw, Buffy stomps on his wrist and it cracks. It must have been incredibly painful but Hannibal swiftly moves to grab the knife with his other hand, though Buffy kicks it away before he’s able to get it. he grabs her ankle but can’t move her. 

Buffy drops to her knees and wraps her hands around his neck. 

“Did you get off on it you sick bastard,” she hisses, eyes locked with his. 

“Yes.” 

Hannibal smiles slightly, the demon they never saw, triumphant even in defeat. 


	5. As Red as Carnations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. Buffy POV. 1300 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Hannibal.  
> Rating: F15 for mentions of violence, cannibalism, and swearing. 
> 
> Author's Note: I apologize for taking so long to upload this, since it's been written for ages. I hope anyone waiting on it found the completed story elsewhere. Halfway through posting I realized Tamora Pierce has made enough of an impact on me that I was spelling Alana's name Alanna. That has been fixed.

It seems to Buffy that half her life has been spent in windowless hallways, lit with harsh florescent bulbs. It’s a lie. Compared to time spent in school, or at home, or in graveyards it’s nothing. But hospitals have hallways like this. Hospitals and government buildings. And insane asylums. 

She does not allow her thoughts touch her face. She hears the whispers of those who sense her remoteness. _Cold_. 

They’d given their statements, Alana distraught, Will disturbed, and Buffy numb. She couldn’t stop her thoughts from going places she’d regret. But who could stop a racing mind? 

Killing monsters, protecting humanity. What a fucking joke. _Fuck Hannibal_ , she thinks, angry and alone in the hallway. This is the last thing she needs in her present state- to have what little regard for humanity she still possesses further diminished. It isn’t fair to the other people she’s met, like Alana and Will, who seemed nice. Or the hundreds of strangers she interacts with on a daily basis, none of whom probably kill people for fun. 

Her nails, with their neat French manicure, are rusty red under the little white edges. 

Hannibal had been hauled off in a cop car for questioning. They hadn’t dared to cuff her, but she had gone along. It wouldn’t take more than a lab test on their dinner to be certain, even she knew that much, and it had been positive. Which was nice as the FBI agents stopped treating her like she was insane. Now they just give her a very wide berth. She watches them slink up and down the opposite side of her hallway. She hears the slow tab of low heels. 

“Buffy,” Alana says softly. Buffy turns to face her. The other women’s face is pale and drawn. Her eyes are red, covered in neatly reapplied makeup. 

“How,” she hesitates. “How are you,” she finishes. Buffy knows that’s not the only thing she wants to know. 

“Fine,” she replies. It’s a lie, but then, it always is. Who is fine, in a world as fucked up as theirs? 

Alana is silent for a moment. She wants to say something, Buffy can tell without looking at her, but can’t get it out. She knows the feeling, there is a bird in her chest that wants to apologize, wants to sing _‘I’m sorry_ ’ but what would be the point? Sorry for catching him? Sorry you didn’t? Sorry your friend is a psychopath? 

“Will had a seizure,” Alana says quietly. Buffy’s head snaps to the side, meeting her gaze for the first time. She allows some of the worry, the panic she feels to show on her face. 

“What?” she asks lowly, and again, “What is it?” in a higher voice. She shouldn’t care this much. 

Alana shakes her head. “They’re testing for different things.” Buffy thinks of the awareness the two of them have for each other. Alana cares. 

“It’s not anything to do with….” she trails off suggestively, worrying, and irrationally suspicious. 

“I don’t know,” Alana says. 

They sit in silence. Buffy has missed her flight. She hasn’t called ahead to let anyone know. They will worry. She will let them. 

“I can’t believe I never saw…what he was,” Alana says. Her voice is steady, as is her gaze, her words quiet, but not whispered. Buffy allows herself a moment to admire the other woman’s strength. Alana is a very steady person. 

She is not quite sure how to respond to this sort of thing. Once she would have sympathized, told the other woman it wasn’t her fault. Once she would have cried. Once she would have had the strength to empathize, to recall her own dark days when someone she trusted shattered her and laughed about it. Once she would have had the strength to feign any one of those reactions and could feel guilt later, to absolve her sins. 

She is silent for a long time, and Alana doesn’t speak again. They sit together and watch the people pass them by, looking and trying not to look. Buffy feels her phone vibrate. She blinks and looks down, and hey, look, there’s her purse. 

She turns to make eye contact with Alana for the first time since the other woman sat down. 

“In some ways,” she says quietly. “The betrayal is worse. It won’t get better, but you learn to care less, I think. I have to take this.”  
She takes her phone out of her purse, and moves a little away. It is Dawn who is calling her, demanding to know where she is, what’s happened. There is real concern in her voice, but Buffy can’t deal with it. She looks back at Alana, steady and still, but slowly being worn away. She thinks of Will, trapped by his talents, drowning every day. He’s up in a hospital bed somewhere, hopefully recovering from his seizure. But will he ever recover from his betrayal, she wonders. 

Some wounds don’t heal. Betrayal is the red that never goes away, the stain that she never managed to cleanse herself of no matter how many tears she cried. Her life is stretched before her, a white and vast thing. She can’t imagine a future in which she is happy and normal. Buffy knows something fundamental was changed by her resurrection., and the events that happened afterwards. But somehow…

Being here and seeing these people trapped and manipulated and stuck, like hapless souls drowned by kelpies, makes her _scared_ and fear is something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. Maybe she should leave, she thinks, her sister’s voice ringing in her ears. Maybe that’s all she can do. 

She’d had a list once, young and innocent, loved and loving, of things she wanted to do and places she wanted to go. Maybe it was time to rediscover what desire felt like. 

Buffy snaps her phone shut. She will go back to her hotel and clean up. She will wait for Will to wake up, just to say goodbye and make sure all is well. She will make her statements and get on a plane. She will not go home. 

Hope, that thing with feathers, awakens in her chest. It has been asleep for a long time. The carnage and cruelty of Hannibal’s manipulations painted her mind red with rage for a while, and then it had turned the white of institutional walls. Now, looking out of the only window in the long hallway, having effectively committed to severing ties with her past life, she sees the green of the trees just beginning to get their leaves back. 

She walks to the bench and picks up her purse, giving Alana a smile that is tired but real. 

“I’ll be in touch,” she says, and walks away. 

“Buffy?” the other woman asks her retreating back. “Where are you going?”

Buffy pauses. 

“I don’t know yet,” she says, not turning around. 

Will gets better. It takes time. Alana helps. Both are guilt-ridden, and both are traumatized (though Will bears more of the damage). Will quits the FBI, and Alana avoids Jack Crawford. Hannibal is exiled from their conversations. They only discuss Buffy once. They had both liked her, in a way, but she didn’t fit in the life they had managed to carve out together, tenuous as it was. 

She had said goodbye to Will once he had recovered from his encephalitis, and had shared some secret with him that he wouldn’t speak of. She had called Alana from the airport to thank her. And she had gone. Later, some people from her organization had come looking for her, but they were unable to help. And if Will and Alana didn’t mention the occasional postcard from far away, well, that was something they could both live with. 


End file.
